


Crowbar Redux

by Longdaysjourney



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, S03/Episode1 AU, So do Karen and Foggy, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longdaysjourney/pseuds/Longdaysjourney
Summary: Matt drags himself to his knees, gravel digging painfully through the thin fabric of his pants. The world blinks in and out of existence and he pats the wet concrete around him, trying to locate the discarded crowbar. Finally, he finds it, tosses it to one of the men – “Hold on”, his voice is hoarse. He rocks back on his knees, arms outstretched and face pointed away – “God forgive me”.Or, what if Matt had took that hit from the crowbar in Season 3/Episode 1?
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Claire Temple, Matt Murdock & Frank Castle
Comments: 37
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

Matt drags himself to his knees, gravel digging painfully through the thin fabric of his pants. The world blinks in and out of existence and he pats the wet concrete around him, trying to locate the discarded crowbar. Finally, he finds it, tosses it to one of the men – “Hold on”, his voice is hoarse. He rocks back on his knees, arms outstretched and face pointed away – “God forgive me”.

Matt feels rather than hears the sharp inhale and exhale of disbelief as the man lifts the crowbar. For a moment there’s nothing, then a faint whistling as the weapon is swung, connects. And Matt, whose optic nerves have been dead for decades, imagines he can see a shower of sparks explode behind his useless eyes. 

\---

Awareness seeps in slowly, in fits and starts. First, the monotonous beep of a hospital monitor — faint, like listening to a radio frequency where the dial’s misaligned. Next is the soreness, deep and pervasive, in his hips, his side, and most worryingly his head. He winces and immediately feels someone beside him startle, a reflexive squeezing of his right hand. Although his hearing is still compromised, he thinks he senses the gallop of a racing heartbeat next to him. 

“Matt”, Claire breathes. “What have you done to yourself now?”

He tries to prop himself up by his elbows, but a firm hand to his chest holds him in place. Claire lowers her head until the ends of her hair brush his cheeks, her face turned to the side, “You were brought in as a John Doe five days ago.” She pauses for a moment before continuing on, “You had on your black pajamas get-up, but thankfully nothing else that would point to your _alternative_ lifestyle.” Distantly, he wonders if the room was being monitored or if Claire always spoke so elliptically. 

She straightens abruptly. “What happened to you?” Her voice, steady until now, breaks and Matt understands the question ranges beyond the past five days, to a collapsed building in Hell’s Kitchen and a betrayal so deep that he couldn’t hope to scale out from under it. 

Because no matter what else had happened or will happen, he had stayed behind. Given a choice between his living, breathing, waiting friends and embracing the worst parts of himself, embracing death, he had plunged headlong into the abyss. These last few weeks, while he was convalescing under the watchful eye of his priest and the nun who had raised him, that abyss had receded minutely, by degrees. He was angry, yes, unmoored, but he also started believing that he could recover some measure of utility, continue to help the city as Daredevil if not Matt Murdock.

He’s suddenly aware that he hasn’t answered Claire’s question. That in fact, he hasn’t yet spoken at all. The silence stretches out between them. Words he doesn’t know how to say, stall and die in his throat. Words that would be unfair to unload on her…that he never intended to come back as Matt Murdock. That, five days ago, he made the choice to not come back at all. 

Although even if Claire had known to ask, he would be hard-pressed to explain why he chose to stay, after the attackers’ quarry had already escaped. Why, as his hearing wavered and then abandoned him, he decided to surrender to the familiar, encroaching darkness. 

“Look, Matt, no one knows you’re here yet. I only just found out yesterday. You can rest and we can figure out how to tell the others.” Something dark must have crossed his face because Claire’s next words brooked no resistance, “Now that you’re conscious you’ll have to start talking.”

There’s a metallic creak followed by the light and quick tapping of a computer keyboard. “I just noted in your chart that you’re awake, but disoriented and shouldn’t be disturbed. That’ll only buy you a little time. Given the state you were in when you were found, the police will want to talk to you.”

The bed dips a little and Claire is leaning over him again. She plants a gentle kiss on his hairline, gets up to leave. At the threshold she pauses, “I am happy to see you”, she says simply, before quietly closing the door behind her. 

\---

True to Claire’s word, Matt is left alone for a while. As his hearing returns, the cacophony of an overburdened hospital starts to reach him – the beep of machinery, the rapid footsteps of doctors and nurses as they move from room to room, the occasional rattle of someone’s last breath. It’s overwhelming – Matt had grown acclimated to the hushed quiet of the church basement. Within those damp walls, there was a rhythm, a predictability to his featureless days – a salve counteracting his restlessness even as he grew increasingly frustrated by his physical limitations. 

Amid the jumble, slowly his senses hone in on one sound - strident, yet strangely quiet, steps reach, then stop at his door. The door knob clicks as it’s turned, but Matt already knows who’s on the other side – he can smell the faint residue of gun powder, oiled military-issue boots, the creak of leather. 

“Red”, the word is almost a growl. “And Matt Murdock – back from the dead,” Frank pulls a chair, legs scraping on the linoleum floor, and sits.

“What are you doing here, Frank?” Matt’s voice is quiet, raw from disuse.

“Had to see if you were okay – the other night, you didn’t seem to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fanfic - please be kind! I reserve the right of course to delete it all - via the immortal words of the Dread Pirate Roberts -- “Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.”
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful fanfic authors -- all more talented than me by leaps and bounds -- for their encouragement. I'll refrain from naming them so they don't have to shoulder the blame for my sins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy finds himself practically running to keep up with Karen, who’s maintaining an impressively punishing pace given the shoes she's wearing. He must have interrupted a date when he called her – in addition to those shoes (a strappy, stiletto-heeled number), she’s wearing a silk dress, belted at the waist and dotted with yellow flowers, he’s never seen before. Though now that he thinks about it, aside from a few awkward overtures at Josie’s where they both felt suddenly out of place, he hasn’t seen much of Karen at all since Nelson & Murdock imploded in the aftermath of the Castle trial.

Foggy finds himself practically running to keep up with Karen, who’s maintaining an impressively punishing pace given the shoes she's wearing. He must have interrupted a date when he called her – in addition to those shoes (a strappy, stiletto-heeled number), she’s wearing a silk dress, belted at the waist and dotted with yellow flowers, he’s never seen before. Though now that he thinks about it, aside from a few awkward overtures at Josie’s where they both felt suddenly out of place, he hasn’t seen much of Karen at all since Nelson & Murdock imploded in the aftermath of the Castle trial. 

That had changed briefly with Midland Circle. At the precinct, they had clung to each other, staring at the empty patch of doorway as first Luke, then Danny, and finally Jessica walked through, heads bowed and eyes downcast. Although he felt numb at that moment, he still remembers now the blast of hot breath against his neck, the curtain of hair cascading over his shoulder, as Karen fought to contain her tears. 

In the months since Matt’s disappearance (since his _death_ ), they’ve both become experts at hiding behind carefully constructed facades. For him, it meant disappearing into a chrome and glass fortress – to his corner office on the thirtieth floor – smiling, filing paperwork, defending the innocent (and not so innocent) and pretending his best friend wasn’t dead. Karen, meanwhile, first assiduously avoided then relentlessly pursued every angle of the Midland Circle disaster, prompting her editor to gently pull her aside and suggest some time away to clear her head. 

Nonetheless, they were surviving in a fashion, in their own fucked up ways, and on their own timetable, when Claire called him today and upended everything. 

Hence the panting and sweating as they stampede past the nurses’ station, past disapproving stares from orderlies maneuvering carts and patients walking the halls. They stop short when Karen almost crashes into a leather-clad and very familiar wall. Despite the sunglasses and cap slung low over his eyes, despite the hunch in his back as if he’s trying to shrink down to a point, there was no mistaking Frank Castle. 

Karen’s eyes widen as Frank huffs out an answer to her unspoken question – “He’s really in there.”

“Who?” Foggy asks, then laughs a little hysterically, so surprised to see Frank that his normal command of the English language evaporates. 

“Murdock, choir boy… Daredevil”, this last Frank spits out almost angrily.

“I’m… I’m not sure what you mean,” Foggy begins.

“Save it, Nelson. I’ve known since that day on the roof, when his girlfriend died in his arms.” Karen visibly flinches. “But I suspected during his closing argument at the trial. That condescending, stubborn streak of idealism,” his voice softens, “there ain’t any mask can cover that up.”

Foggy’s shoulders slump, “Why are you here?”

“I saw your boy go down. I couldn’t get there in time to prevent it, but I stopped it from getting worse.”

Foggy has so many questions – _so many_ , but the need to see his friend overtakes his curiosity. It’s not even a contest, really. He pushes forward, but finds his way impeded by Frank’s hand on his arm. “Wait, there’s something you should know,” Frank looks uncomfortable, his next words are directed towards his feet. “Murdock’s not quite right in the head.”

“Of course, he’s not right in the head,” Karen snaps, anger lances through her words. “He worked so hard to reclaim his life, adjust to living in this world... He was actually helping people…” Her voice wavers, steadies – "Just to put on the suit again... for what, to chase down demon ninjas with a team of messed up superheroes?” She’s trembling, barely able to contain her rage – though Foggy suspects she knows it’s misplaced. Violently, she opens her purse and takes out a hairband, gathers her wayward waves into a tight ponytail at the base of her neck. She looks incandescent. She looks ready to wage war.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you. I…” Foggy starts, stops, then starts again, “I didn’t really see the need, after Matt died, to hurt you any more than you already were.” He sighs. “It wasn’t just to fight demon ninjas or to save New York…” He fiddles with his tie, fingers tracing its diagonal lines, “Matt’s ex, Elektra — she was back. But she came back wrong somehow. Matt wanted to save her, or ensure she was at peace, I’m not sure even he knew which. He…he felt that he owed her.”

Karen deflates, as if the anger driving her was all that was keeping her upright. 

Frank had been watching their exchange without a word, but now he continues, “Like I said, I couldn’t get there in time to prevent the attack, but I saw what happened right before.” He hesitates. “Near as I could tell, Murdock got tired.”

Foggy waits expectantly, thinking there’s more, when Frank’s implication hits him full force. “No, that’s impossible. Matt wouldn’t…” He leans against the wall for support, his legs suddenly unable to bear weight. 

Foggy rubs his hand over his eyes, momentarily silent. When he starts to speak again, his voice is so low that Frank and Karen have to strain to hear him. “There were some episodes when we were in college, then a few in law school. Not that anyone really noticed – Matt has always been good at faking it – but I was his roommate."

Foggy sighs noisily through his nose. “You know Matt. The man is mired in full-on denial most of the time, but he can also be stupidly transparent. When an episode was coming on, he’d start sleeping like shit, yet stay in bed half the day.” 

He doesn’t mention Matt’s spiral the first time Elektra left him – how Foggy coaxed, then pleaded, then threatened to get the Dean involved. 

“I figured a blind, orphaned kid – he must have been carrying around a mountain of issues. But Matt valued his privacy, so I tried not to intrude.” Foggy winced at the defensiveness in his voice. “Maybe I’d get him a plate from the dining hall or drag him out for a drink, but I didn’t want to be too obvious – you know? Still, I’ve never known him to want to…” He trails off.

“I just thought you should know,” Frank says gruffly. 

He makes a move as if to leave. Foggy stops him, awkwardly holds out his hand to shake Frank’s. “Thank you”. He’s suddenly self-conscious of his tweed suit, his newly polished shoes, the expensive haircut he treated himself to last week. He realizes, with a start, that he doesn’t know Frank at all.

Frank dips his head in acknowledgement, and he and Karen exchange a wordless look before he disappears behind the swinging doors leading out to the floor’s elevator bank.

\----

Foggy turns the knob and steps through the doorway, Karen at his heels. The sight on the other side almost reduces him to sobs – of joy, of relief, of anguish: knowing that his friend was in so much pain, that he had sought a way to end it, that he believed somehow that no one would notice. But for now, relief and joy win out. 

“You look like shit”, Foggy says, without preamble. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the door, at the hallway beyond that, “How much of that did you hear?” 

Matt is sitting, semi-propped up by a pair of pillows, sheet drawn up to his waist. He really does look awful. The skin peeking through the slit in his hospital gown is deeply mottled – angry violets and blues compete for real estate with the fading sepia of older bruises. There is a raised welt on the side of his head and his eyes look hollowed out, drained. 

“Most of it, I think”, his head is tilted down, sightless eyes studying his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from Foggy's perspective. I tried to let Karen and Foggy's headspace in the first third of the season be the guideposts within which I wrote their reactions (hopefully nothing's too out of character). 
> 
> I also managed to make it a little longer this time - ideally the extra words aren't too puffy - I tend to get overly (needlessly) verbose if left unchecked. Still trying to figure out how to write something sustained and not too cliched.
> 
> Also, constructive criticism is always welcomed! I bruise like a peach, but I also want to improve, so I'll field any tips, corrections, suggestions, etc. you might have - thank you in advance!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy sits on the bed, careful not to disturb the wires and tubes snaking over and under the sheets. A few are stained rust-brown while another empties its contents into the crook of Matt’s arm.

Foggy sits on the bed, careful not to disturb the wires and tubes snaking over and under the sheets. A few are stained rust-brown while another empties its contents into the crook of Matt’s arm.

Karen pulls up a chair and stops short at the boundary of an unseen perimeter. There, she doesn’t so much sit as collapse, regarding Matt through hooded eyes, her bag clasped to her chest. Although her earlier anger has dissipated, spent before the last of Frank’s footsteps had faded, it’s replaced by a catlike wariness. She isn’t sure what she’s supposed to feel. 

Their first meeting – on opposing sides of a battered precinct table, her wrists restrained by cold, metal links – feels like it happened a lifetime ago. Matt had radiated confidence and reassurance, eyes inscrutable behind tinted glasses. But his voice was kind, infused with warmth and intelligence. Where Foggy was flustered, Matt was contained, cutting an elegant figure in his ironed suits and upright carriage which probably – Karen only realized much later – had more to do with his nocturnal hobby and the injuries he collected from it than anything else.

She had been cold and afraid that night. Around her neck, the grip of that guard’s fingers still burned. When Matt suggested that she stay over, she let herself be led, haunted by the memory of Daniel’s blood caked on her hands. And when he removed his glasses under the flickering light streaming through his living room, she had imagined he was confiding in her and, despite herself, felt the tension in her shoulders ease. 

At one point, her entire universe comprised of Foggy and Matt.

They welcomed her into their firm and into their circle. Her ticket of entry – her grandmother’s magical lasagna recipe. Matt, she soon learned, was an unapologetic nerd, by turns goofy and sarcastic – especially once they manage to get a beer or two in him. 

Foggy, she knew, had a bit of a crush. It was evident in the long glances he directed her way when he thought she wasn’t looking, in the fumbled invitations that he delivered with studied nonchalance. She tried to be kind, but it was hard – she was nursing her own crush.

There were long days at the office punctuated by the three of them perched atop rickety barstools, sweating under florescent lights, the heat of Josie’s cheap liquor warming their blood. Some nights ended around the sloped pool table in the back – even now Karen flushes at the memory of her hand skimming lightly over Matt’s, under the pretext of guiding his cue. How her breathing had hitched when her body, unbidden, reacted to the proximity of his.

But then the Castle case happened and Elektra happened and that rift, which Karen didn’t understand at the time, re-opened between Foggy and Matt. And before that, there was Matt limping or Matt with a bruise that the glasses couldn’t quite cover or Matt not showing up at all. 

As for her, she’s hounded by the specter of a man in a white dress shirt marred by seven leaking holes. 

They were very different people now and Karen’s not sure if it’s possible to find a route back.

Foggy is hugging Matt tightly, waves of relief rolling off him. For a moment, Matt leans into it, his eyes closed and expression unguarded. Then, reluctantly, he pulls away. 

“How, Matt…” Foggy begins, warring emotions flitting across his face. One barely manages to register before it’s swiftly replaced by another.

Karen sighs and speaks for the first time, “I think what Foggy means to say is – why didn’t you get in touch with us? You had to have known that we still hoped you were out there, somewhere.”

Matt bows his head, “I thought you were better off without me.” He turns towards Foggy, his eyes looking past his shoulder, “Without me, you were thriving – you had already proven you didn’t need me during Frank’s trial. All I was doing was holding you back.”

Foggy’s expression darkens. “You don’t get to unilaterally decide what’s best for either one of us, Matt,” he shouts, frustrated. Matt flinches, shrinking back against the pillows. Foggy’s voice softens – “Don’t you think we’re capable of making our own choices? You’re not hiding who you are anymore. You’re not hiding this,” He waves his arm in a wide circle. “We can help. You shouldn’t have to face everything alone.”

“But I have to. What I do, I do in the dark.” Matt is almost pleading, “And I’m too tired to try to push you away again – you have to help me, you have to leave.” And Karen realizes that he does sound tired. His voice is ragged with exhaustion, the skin under his eyes purple shadows. What Frank told them earlier comes back to her. 

His body under the hospital gown is thin, it’s lost the lean muscle mass she had so admired in a different life, and he can’t hide the tremor in his hands – his fingers twitching in agitation.

She remembers his fingers worrying the cuffs of his hoodie – that day she confronted him at his apartment after his car “accident”. He was hiding so much then – and her heart breaks a little now, remembering how he had felt the need to sequester these pieces of himself so thoroughly. And she thinks, perhaps they aren’t so different. 

She stands up and approaches his bed, puts one hand over his. “We’ll figure it out together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karen's perspective. 
> 
> I'm not completely satisfied with this, but I wanted to advance this along while momentum was on my side. Happy Saturday!


End file.
